“Why, most certainly, we won’t,” began the former, heartily. “Come, Vipan—your time’s your own, you know, and you may just as well do some hunting out our way as anywhere else.”
“Of course,” assented his wife. “But—I know what it is. We have offended him in some way. Yseulte, what have you done to offend Mr Vipan? I’m sure I can’t call to mind anything.”
“There is no question of offence,” protested Vipan. “I am a confirmed wanderer, you see, Mrs Winthrop—here to-day, away to-morrow. The country is clear of reds now, and you will no longer need our additional rifles. If we have rendered you some slight service, I can answer for it, my partner is as glad as I am myself.”
No man living was less liable to be swayed by caprice than the speaker. Yet suddenly he became as resolved to remain a little longer, as he had been a moment before to leave. And this change was brought about by the most trivial circumstance in the world. While he was speaking, his eyes had met those of Yseulte Santorex.
Only for a moment, however.
When Vipan, in his usual laconic manner, informed his comrade that he concluded to wait a bit longer, the latter merely remarked, “Right, pard. Jest as you fancy.” But as he rolled over to go to sleep, he nodded off to the unspoken soliloquy—
“It’s a rum start—a darn rum start. At his time of life, too! Yes, sir.”